


They Alone Will Stand Against the Darkness

by wtvoc



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire Slayer, Crossover, F/M, Gen, Revolutionary War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-16
Updated: 2013-11-06
Packaged: 2017-12-29 14:49:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1006681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wtvoc/pseuds/wtvoc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the war for the end of days, there are two witnesses. Together, they will fight the vampires, the demons, and the forces of darkness. They are the Slayer and the Spy. A series of drabbles- moments, if you will.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The pounding of the hooves. That was the one detail on which he focused- hooves pounding. All that chaos, all that death surrounding him, the acrid smell of gunpowder assaulting his senses, the small arcs of blood catching soft flickers of dappled sunlight through the trees- and Ichabod's focus was on the charging Hessians before him.

 _Mercenaries_ , his mind registered with disgust. He never could tolerate the thought of paid gunmen. It was so _uncivilised_. What was war if there was no overriding emotion governing all, one unified reason to drive one to win? Surely, money was no excuse for such destruction. Pecuniary advantages ought to mean nothing in war, in the face of death, in the threat of conquest and famine. Yet here were these men, these Hessians, charging at Ichabod with nary a thought as to his passion for this burgeoning country that was so strong he was willing to die for it.

"Crane!" Captain Taylor's voice rang out, and as Ichabod looked up, several events seemed to conflagrate his senses, overwhelming him into such a surfeit of emotion that he was able to focus it on one thing, on one man.

If he was a man at all.

One of the Hessians was charging straight for him, and were it not for General Washington's intelligence- had he not been informed that there was one Hessian that was _other_ , that it was his mission from God to kill- then Ichabod might have ignored the red flare in the charging horse's eyes. He might have disregarded utterly the cold feeling assaulting his senses, reminding him of the time he had fallen through a patch of ice whilst skating on the frozen pond near Ravenswoode, his family's ancestral home. The cold had startled at first, then the assault had begun to creep through his eyes, causing such pressure in his head that he had thought he would surely burst.

That was how he felt now, only instead of the steady hand of his friend pulling him from the water, he discerned the pull of this masked Hessian, this man who was surely not a man. Not if Washington and the other men who seemed to be privy to such things were correct in their estimations.

Ichabod stood, tilting his chin in defiance of the man riding like the devil was on his trail. He knew what Washington had said; he understood that mere firearms were unable to destroy either the flesh or soul of the devil about to plow straight into him, yet he fired anyway. As the musket ball tore through the Hessian's shoulder, many things filtered through Ichabod's mind- that he should have finished the _petit -fours_ served in General Washington's study; that he needed to remind his old cohort at Merton to send along his Miltons; Katrina. Their last disagreement, her insistence that certain danger lay before him should he choose General Washington's path. He had laughed at that. _It's War, darling_ , he had said somewhat condescendingly, a tone he had often had to affect with her of late. _Of course there is danger in it._ Then he had bussed her forehead, her temple, the thin vein wending across her clavicle. He looked over his shoulder as he left, chuckling at the watery worry held in her eyes.

Now he regretted that final thought of his wife as the Hessian rose, the injury inflicted by Ichabod ineffective.

 _A double-headed axe must be a burden to carry on horseback_ he mused and then chastised himself mentally for the inanity of what was sure to be his last thought. He reached for his sabre, attempting to discern whether a beheading was perhaps in order, when out of the corner of his eye he saw a blur.

Through the destruction, through the death surrounding him, a light- a slight light, a flash of a woman. A mere slip of a dark lady, a- an emancipated slave, perhaps. Only this was no slave, and the thought that she appeared to be too noble for servility was shoved to the back of his mind when- unbelievably- the woman executed a sleek, seductive combination of kicks and punches, making her way through the assorted Hessians and his former countrymen as though it were nothing. 

In the moment, the infinitesimal flash of time between his appraisal of this woman and the felled Hessian rising, Ichabod felt a thrill course though him. General Washington had said it was his destiny to pursue this course of action, and as his eyes met the steely resolve in the woman's predatory stare, he agreed with his commander's assessment for the first time. 

As the Hessian raised his axe, the woman's attention was caught. She neatly leapt over a wall of crumbling stones, sidestepping a felled horse. As she passed a redcoat making hand combat with one of the colonialists, she kicked at the man's shin, his leg snapping at an awkward angle. The power, the nonchalance with which she had broken the man's leg filled Ichabod with a sense of awed arousal. Who was this woman?

The Hessian had hesitated somewhat, the eyes behind his dark mask also drawn inexorably to the power radiating from the woman marching toward him. Ichabod took that moment to raise his sabre and that drew the Hessian's attention; he faced Ichabod once again, and Ichabod took a deep breath, ready to slice the air and hopefully the Hessian devil's head on the exhale.

Only he never had the chance to exhale.

The woman was there, and she held two bloody sabres, one in each determined fist. Her arms were crossed, the shining blades dotted with dark red on either side of her. She took two rushed steps, placing one dainty, beslippered foot on the haunch of the Hessian's felled horse and leaping up, her arms uncrossed mid-air next to the Hessian.

Before he had a chance to turn his attention back to this new assailant, her twin blades had sliced his head clear off. His body fell to its knees and Ichabod nearly fell, too. It would not be last time he wondered from where this astonishing woman came.

She kicked at the still form; it did not move. With an indelicate grunt, she nodded in satisfaction, then toed the severed head closer to the body. Leaning over, her fingertips reached to pluck at the mask covering his severed head.

"Don't," Ichabod said on a rasp, hating the involuntary tremor in his voice. He cleared his throat and appealed to her once more. "Please."

Her eyes met his and it was anomalous, this stranger- this woman unknown to him- the ancient sadness in her eyes spoke to the soul-seeking perseverance in his heart. 

"You Crane?" were the first words she uttered to him. Too stupefied to respond eloquently, he merely nodded. Her lips turned down as she nodded in response, looking about and seemingly uninterested in the carnage still occurring around them. She reached a hand into a pocket hidden under the fripperies of her dress which was oddly devoid of any blood, considering her actions of a moment ago. She revealed what appeared to be a small stone with odd marks matching those he had glimpsed on parchments in Washington's study and placed it over the center of the Hessian's body.

"Hand me that saddlebag over there," she said, her eyes once again boring into his after he realized he had not responded to her request. Rolling her eyes to the heavens, she stamped over to his side and picked up the bag in question, upending it and shaking its contents to the ground.

"He won't be needing this anymore, anyway," she said rather flippantly, indicating the felled redcoat whose bag she had just pilfered. She walked back to the Hessian. It should have surprised Ichabod that she picked up the severed head and placed it in the sack, hefting the entire package over her shoulder, but it did not. Something told him that there were more surprises to be had now that this woman had flip-kicked and beheaded her way into his life.

"Did they tell you about me?"

"Th-they?" _Oh, brilliant,_ he thought to himself. _Stammer about like a rank amateur around a beautiful warrior of a woman such as this_.

"The Coven? The Good Witches of the Colonies? No? Oh, wonderful. I do _so_ adore it when my presence has not been explained here in the Colonies. Just _perfect_ ," she railed, stomping away and occasionally kicking at English and Colonial soldiers alike. She stopped when she was several yards away and regarded him over her shoulder. "Are you going to follow me back, or not?"

"I- the battle?" Ichabod was not an unintelligent man, but his reason seemed to have left him. His sense of duty pricked at him, telling him not to leave his men, and his sense of marital duty also warned him that following this woman would perhaps be unwise.

"Oh, bother the battle," she said, facing him once again with a quirk in her mouth. She raised an eyebrow and said, "your General desires you to come with me."

"But I don't even know who you are."

She sighed. Straightening to her full height which was more than a head below his chin, she dipped her head and primly clasped both hands in front of her and executed a graceful and too-low curtsey. She raised her head and he found utter delight suffusing his overly tired body at the laughter in her eyes. As though presenting herself to be a dance partner, she dangled her wrist in front of his face and smiled.

"I'm Abigail, the Vampire Slayer. I'm here to save the war."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm dedicating this to superfan orlando jones, who is a national treasure.

“Here,” she said, handing him a clean rag. Ichabod was perplexed; since he’d met her, Miss Mills had handed him any manner of items whilst fighting the inexplicable dark forces (“not inexplicable, Mr Crane; we’ve explained them to you using Irving’s _Compendium_!”), but they had all been weapons. He was a trained expert in many firearms and he’d thought he was particularly adept at swords (she had laughed and laughed when he had told her of the two duels he’d fought back in England), but when Irving, her Watcher, had suggested Ichabod demonstrate his talents to gauge how useful he’d be to the Cause, Abigail had bested him soundly. She’d held back, he could sense it, and when she easily parried his advance a fourth time, he had stopped, moving back to _salute_.

Abigail’s only response had been to raise an eyebrow, a facial inflection he noticed had become more pronounced on her face the more time they spent together. Katrina had always turned demurely from his own upturned brow, and he’d done nothing to diminish the insouciance. This woman, however, would not be cowed by simple facial expressions.

“What?” she had finally said, arm outstretched in a perfect line, nary a bend in her arm. It had taken him months of his fencing master impatiently tapping at his elbow to get him to achieve a line that he was sure looked far better on this Slayer’s form.

“You are placating me, Miss Mills, and I won’t have it! Do not temper your talent on my account, please. Now- _en garde_!”

That had been a mistake.

 

“Here,” she repeated, and when he did not reach for the rag, she clucked her tongue and impatiently stepped forward. He was slumped over in a chair, utterly and inexorably exhausted after their twelfth match. Ichabod had insisted again and again on rematches, and he was not entirely certain as to why. He knew he would be unable to best her, this mere slip of a woman, this dynamic, fiery lady, this Slayer.

But something inside implored him to try. Not to prove himself to her; perhaps to prove himself to _him_. As he attacked and counter-attacked and was hit time and again, the only thought in his head was that he must get in at least one hit, at least one neat tick into his opponent. Then maybe he would understand why it was that everyone- the General, the Watcher, the Coven- the Slayer herself- insisted that he was destined to fight next to someone as miraculous and awe-inspiring as Miss Abigail Mills.

Surely, the powers that be were in error.

It was that particular thought that had led to a slight pause on his part; a moment, one half second during their dance. He’d thought he was doing a mite bit better, her attacks feeling less easy and a small furrow in her brow indicating to him that maybe, perhaps, he was approaching her level. Then that small moment of doubt, that falter in his footwork- and her sword had slipped. It was as though he had stepped on her foot during a dance; the look of surprise that suffused her face turned quickly to horror as she lunged forward, the clang of her sword clattering to the ground making him wince. Before he knew it he was slumped over in the ragged upholstery of an old chair, a rag in front of his face.

When he made no further move to take the cloth from her, Abbie huffed and took the final step into his personal space. She screwed up her expression into something resembling the bland countenance of her Watcher and leaned forward, reaching out with the rag. Ichabod held his breath. Despite the weeks spent learning about the dark forces and demons and other realms, despite the time spent in each other’s company, they had never gotten this close physically.

“I- the sword- Ichabod, your face,” she said softly, and a look of concern took over her brow. Leaning forward the extra few inches that brought her chest to his eye line, he hastily turned to the side to avoid the ever-present temptation of ogling Abigail Mills.

“What about my face?” he said, his voice cracking.  He took a deep breath and the faint scent of a familiar flower and copper assailed his senses. Was the cross she wore at her neck made from copper? He had thought it to be silver.

“I cut you when you paused,” she said, her voice low with a touch of apology. He reached up to where she held the rag and felt the sting on his brow. “Why did you stop? You were doing so well.” Not for the first time, he wondered about her accent. It had been on the tip of his tongue to ask many times, but the question seemed impertinent, almost as though asking her a personal question would be deemed untoward. She was focused, always about “the mission”, and the simple courtesies he had relied on all his life seemed inappropriate, somehow. Questions like, “How are you this evening?” or “Is your family well?” or especially “How are you able to fight as you do, with little regard to your own personal safety or appearance, yet you always walk away without injury or perturbance, a smile on your face and a song in your heart?” seemed superfluous. If Ichabod had come to learn anything in his constant study of the mighty and wondrous woman who at the moment seemed disturbed by his very human, very mortal blood, it was that she defied the explanation that simple questions could yield.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered when he hissed. She pulled away slightly, cringing. He did not wish for her to leave, however, so he grabbed for the rag, his fingers clasping over hers, pressing the cloth to staunch whatever blood continued to flow from his wound.

“The pain is little,” he murmured, still not meeting her eye. He could sense her perusal of his face as she stood there, almost indecently close. Closing his eyes and moistening his mouth, he wanted to ask her those questions, wanted to get to know this enigmatic little woman, this largely powerful and magnetic Slayer of demons. Instead, he blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

“What are you wearing?”

Confused, he watched, mesmerized, as her other hand came up, fumbling with the cross about her neck. Her small fist closed over it, the interplay of bone and muscle underneath the skin of her knuckles moving in tandem as she squeezed tightly.

“It’s… it was a gift. From my first Watcher. He was… he was as a father to me.”

“Irving is not your first?” he said stupidly. He had not been referring to her necklace, but he allowed his attention to stray there anyway. After a moment, he gently eased her fingers from the cloth at his head and her hand reached up, unconsciously, he thought, to join her other at her chest. Trying hard to ignore the placement of her hands and the heaving of her bosom, he sat up straighter, attempting to put some distance between them. Over her shoulder he saw Irving roll his eyes heavenward as he went about cleaning the swords they had used in their sparring.

“No,” she whispered, taking a step back and finally breaking the small spell that their proximity had seemed to cast over the two of them. “Corbin was… he was what brought me here. To the Colonies, I mean to say. His death. Irving and I have been looking for his killer for some time, and the Mystics indicated that the same Hellmouth from which all of this Colonial strife sprung is where Corbin’s killer… yes? Mr Crane?” Abigail’s voice had been trailing off in the vague fog of memory, but when she noticed Ichabod’s attention was focused on her hands and chest rather than her words, her faltering explanation turned from consternation to bemusement at his inattention.

“I’m sorry about your Watcher,” he murmured, then seemed to realize where his gaze had strayed and snapped to meet her eyes.

“Thank you.”

He searched her face as she stared back at him, wondering what was going through her mind. He wondered what she thought of him, whether she found him wanting in the field of demon-fighting. Whether her Watcher’s Council was correct regarding his status as one of the two Witnesses. Whether that was verbena or lemongrass he was smelling.

“I meant what fragrance are you wearing,” he said, his voice pitching low and not of his own accord. With chagrin, he realized it was the same tone his voice took on when he was either ready to fall asleep or just after he’d awakened, and he had to suppress the grin that thoughts of being in bed just then brought to his mind.

Abbie must have noticed the mirth lighting his eyes for she cocked her head to the side, everything in her countenance suggesting questions she wanted to ask. But just as he never delved into her personal life, she never asked him in kind; as far as she knew, he was a defector from his homeland and he was married. And he was terrible at fencing when held to her standard.

Without addressing his sudden shift from an injured man put out by being defeated once again to… whatever it was that made him look at her in that manner, she let go of her necklace and stood to her full height, which was still barely as tall as he was sitting.

“I suppose you’re smelling lemon verbena. I was tying up some bundles to dry earlier today.”

“Ah,” he smiled. “I did not think you participated in such domestic activities as drying flowers.”

Looking at him the way he supposed he looked at her whenever she attempted to describe any number of the supernatural things they had spoken of over the past few weeks, she said as to a small child, “It was for the Coven, Mr Crane.”

“Oh.” Sheepishly, he went to make a conciliatory gesture and apologize, but she waved him away as she often did before turning and going to speak with Irving.

Ichabod chided himself on his poor form. It never did either of them any good when he made assumptions about this woman. Reminding himself once again to cease making such a fool of himself, he removed the cloth and gingerly pressed on the wound. Wincing at the pain, he stood carefully, making sure the little blood he’d lost would not make him faint.

_Some defender of evil I am_ , he thought darkly. As if she could read his mind- and glad that she could not, he reflected- Abbie looked over her shoulder and offered him a wry smile, beckoning him to her by cocking her head.

“Come now, Mr. Crane. Let us go once again. And do try not to be so predictable this time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, thank you for reading! i welcome all comments, criticisms, etc. these are just drabbles, and i'll write them as they come to me. no real story here, just moments. thank you for reading it!


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